


oh, the places you'll go!

by sheelia



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coming of Age, Drama, Gen, Magical Realism, Melancholy, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 14:38:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7938394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheelia/pseuds/sheelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week after graduating from university, Oikawa takes a trip down along the Boso Peninsula towards his uncle's holiday home. Everything goes according to plan until he falls asleep and misses his stop, and he decides to alight at the next stop to take the train back in the opposite direction. This would work perfectly – except the outgoing train never shows up, and he's stranded at a deserted train station in a ghost town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh, the places you'll go!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nein/gifts).



> Thank you to the artists [coldspilledsoup](http://coldspilledsoup.tumblr.com/), [Tommo](http://littleballofspace.tumblr.com/), and my beta [kl](http://galestrike.tumblr.com/)! Thank you so much for bearing with me complaining a lot on Twitter, it was my coping mechanism lol. Also thank you to Winny and Eliza who held my hand through this, you have no idea.
> 
> Art by [coldspilledcoup](http://tricksterscove.deviantart.com/art/I-like-oceans-im-gonna-draw-a-buttload-now-631787552) and [Tommo](http://littleballofspace.tumblr.com/post/149901037674/oh-the-places-youll-go-by-plaire)!
> 
> This was originally meant for Eliza's birthday, but here I am six months later, presenting this weakly. Largely inspired by the Town of Cats from Murakami's 1Q84, this was an attempt at writing about some growing-up and decision making. We were reading the book around the same time and I had so much fun talking about it with her! It might have been a little ambitious, but I appreciated how much I learnt about writing/about myself as I wrote this. Also this turned out less shippy than I wanted it to be. I hope you'll find this to your liking!
>
>> “You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You're on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who'll decide where to go...”
>> 
>> ― Dr. Seuss, _Oh, The Places You'll Go!_  
> 

 

 

Oikawa watched the reflections of passengers come and go through the grimy windows – mothers tugging the arms of their unwilling children onto the platform, old businessmen shuffling into the train car with their worn briefcases in tow, inexperienced subway riders looking left and right just after they’ve stepped out as they searched for the exit. His profile caught the light of the three o’clock sun, warm and brilliant, and he leaned further into his seat and pushed his cheek further into his fist. The only thing that remained constant on this train – other than the unmoving silhouette of the conductor through the frosted glass divider – was Oikawa himself.

It took a bit of effort for the train to pull its doors close before it heaved away from the platform. Checking his watch, he estimated that it would take at least another hour before he reached his uncle’s town. He tried leafing through the day’s newspaper, as part of a failing habit to stay in touch with current affairs.  _ Fire in Local Supermarket _ . Okay.  _ Appreciation of the Japanese Yen _ . Was that a good thing or a bad thing?  _ Europe Grapples with Plan to Return Refugees _ .

Oikawa closed the newspaper and shifted his attention to the still coastal scenery of the Boso Peninsula. In the distance, he caught sight of the waves riding towards the shore and crashing against the rocks. The chugging of the train along the tracks and the distance between him and the shore drowned out any noise from the sea. It was oddly jarring – this asynchrony in visual and auditory stimuli – so Oikawa found himself recalling the sound of the ocean to fill in the quiet.

He pulled on his collar in an effort to relieve himself, even a little, of the heat, and folded the newspaper neatly back on his lap. The longer he stared outside, the more his eyes shifted out of focus, the green leaves blending together to form an indistinguishable mess.

When Oikawa woke up, the sun was hanging low in the sky and the train car was empty. The train was still chugging along the tracks at the same speed as before. Oikawa leaned over in his seat to squint at the front of the train, noticing that the conductor’s silhouette was still in the same position. His clock read half past four, and his eyes widened in horror.  _ God dammit. _

Because,  _ you know _ , what’s a bad day –  _ hell _ , a bad year – without a few mistakes peppered along the way. He hastily shoved his belongings into his duffel and sprung out of his seat to wait impatiently by the door as an extra measure, fingers tapping impatiently on the metal handhold. He’d just have to wait for the next train in the opposite direction and hope that his uncle was still waiting for him at the station. Except-

_ 4.44 pm. No service. _

Oikawa let out a subdued scream at the back of his throat.

This station had nothing more than the bare minimum; in fact, it was entirely composed of two raised platforms that faced each other, blooming orange train tracks parting the islands with a narrow gap. If he bent over far enough, letting his upper body hang over the ledge, he might succumb to the void. He let his feet cross the faded yellow lines along the edge of the platform in childish defiance. 

He approached the small ticketing booth at the end of platform, his hopes dwindling as he neared it and noticed that there were pieces of paper covering the window. Upon closer scrutiny, he realized that those were the newspapers from almost four years ago. 

Running his hair through his hair, his bangs pressed against his forehead in nervous perspiration, he scanned the empty platform for any sign of life. The signboard next to the ticketing booth had words on them, albeit slightly faded, but words nonetheless. Given the station’s desolate state, he wasn’t expecting the trains to run on schedule anyway. He sat down on one of the benches, speckled orange and peeling blue paint, and was careful to not let any of it get on his corduroy shorts.

For a while, he let his thoughts gather. The stillness of the late afternoon settled like a lake at sunrise, untouched, uneasy. No bird calls, no gusts of wind – nothing. 

He checked his phone every time his hands grew restless. If there was one thing he could count on his phone for – other than to connect to service – it would be to tell the time. By six, however, there had yet to be any sign of an incoming train.

He gathered his belongings and descended the stairs on the side of the platform, stepping around pebbles and overgrown creepers, and walked into the nearby town in hopes of finding help. He slowly walked down the street, conscious of each sound his feet made as he walked. A consistent  _ click-click _ against the uneven asphalt. By then the sky bled a dirty pink, mottled like the wings of a moth, the sun just barely peeking through the gaps between the buildings. To his chagrin, the streets were equally empty. Several windows had been smashed to smithereens, but it didn’t matter that much since they were boarded up with planks of wood. Oddly enough, the rising panic in his chest was quelled by a long-lost sense of serenity. 

Obviously, he wanted to be found. There were plans already set for him: a nice warm bed at his uncle’s waiting for him, even a career path mapped out for him by his university counsellor, though it wasn’t his first choice. But an escape once in a while hurt no one. The roundabout reasoning did something to make himself feel better, if even a little.

He turned back to look every few steps to make sure he knew the way back to the train station.

He stepped into a small unoccupied building (the one that looked the least intimidating) and wound his way through the empty tables and stools and into the back, where there were rooms. He didn’t want to be outside when it got dark, and he figured that, worst comes to worst, he’d walk back along the train tracks tomorrow morning. He fished in his duffel for the bar of chocolate he decided to pack before the trip, and took a sip of water. From watching multiple of those survival dramas and movies, he knew better than to finish his entire bottle of water on a whim.

His hands grew clammy the more he thought about worst case scenarios – Iwa-chan at age 8 whispering into his ear about zombie apocalypses and the end of the world, just to set him off. The creaking of the wood under the weight of the wind put him on the edge. Setting the duffel bag under his head, he closed his eyes and tried to think about nothing, but the more he thought about nothing, thoughts of  _ everything _ began to surface, like hot water gushing out of a geyser.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oikawa heard a muffled sound and felt the overhead lighting switch on, the sudden appearance of light stinging his eyes. It was like looking up at the sky from underwater, light and water mingling in a pleasant yet distorted array. 

The voice cleared its throat and asked again, rough around the edges, almost breaking on the last syllable, “Who are you?”

As he moved to sit up, the tatami mat seemed to undulate under him like the unsteady surface of a pond. The straw grew gritty to his touch. He raised his head, almost in a drunken stupor, and his eyes carelessly glossed over the  _ kotatsu _ , and the whirring tabletop fan perched on it. Blinking himself back into consciousness, he came to face a well-furnished room that bore no resemblance to the one he fell asleep in. He tried to make sense of this; maybe he fell asleep so hard he woke up in a different dimension? He mentally scoffed at that suggestion.

Suddenly aware that he wasn’t the only person in the room, he turned to look at the figure standing in the doorway. The boy looked just as old as he was, a little skinny and sunken in from the way his white t-shirt engulfed him. His silver hair plastered onto his forehead, wet from a shower. He fidgeted with the white towel around his neck for a bit, the small movement seemed to tide him over the uncomfortable silence. His white shirt and navy shorts were underwhelmingly ordinary, and it made Oikawa’s polo and shorts look extremely formal.

“Oof,” Oikawa jerked in surprise, and his feet got caught in the blanket over him. He tipped over ungracefully, and kneeling with a dumbstruck expression on his face,  he gestured to the door, then to himself as a sorry attempt at an explanation. Hopefully he didn’t look like a thief, or worse, a murderer.

The boy’s eyes widened as he came to conclusion, like he’d just remembered something he had long forgotten. The shift in each of his features was slight, but the combination of all of it changed the way he looked entirely.

“Ah!” he sighed with a hand on his hip, “I got it. Don’t worry.”

Oikawa stared back at him, mouth gaping open, still trying to piece the pieces together while barely awake.

“Might wanna close your mouth there,” the boy held back a snicker, his voice soft, “Wouldn’t want you to catch any flies.” With the wave of his hand he gestured to somewhere beyond the door. “We can get something to eat.”

Without waiting for Oikawa’s reply, he headed outside, fully expecting Oikawa to follow.

 

 

 

 

 

Emerging from the small room he had taken shelter in, Oikawa was stunned when he entered the very restaurant he had been in just a while earlier. Weaving through the tables and stools, which were now neatly arranged (as should be in a proper establishment), he mentally juxtaposed the two contrasting images. The dusty wooden tables morphed into glossy, clean ones. At the edge of every table was a box of chopsticks and a lidded bowl of  _ tsukemono _ . Nothing was out of the ordinary.

The boy’s back peeked out of the corner of one of the windows at the front of the restaurant, his white shirt bright against the dark of the night outside. He pushed aside the curtain that draped over the exit ( _ had that been there before? _ ) and found him waiting outside. He was staring at nothing in particular, idly shifting his weight side to side in a steady momentum.

“Wait wait wait,” Oikawa coughed out, still shaken. He had a hand on his own chest, heaving as if he’d just run a marathon or thrown into the wilderness. “What’s going on?”

The boy quirked an eyebrow, completely unfazed.

“We’re going for breakfast,” he replied simply, as if it were completely normal to be eating the first meal of the day when the sky’s painted a harsh black. He started to walk, leaving Oikawa trailing behind him. “I’ll explain later, but for now-”

He was enigmatic, charming, and he stole the words right of out Oikawa’s mouth. And Oikawa faced a fierce internal debate, between trusting him and running away. He continued walking though, his feet acting running than his mind. 

“So. What do people call you?” The boy asked once they had rounded the first bend. His flip flops made loud noises as they slapped against the pavement.

“What do people call me?” Oikawa parroted, finding the other’s choice of words odd for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint. Was it the country accent? “My name? It’s Oikawa Tooru.”

His entire face relaxed into a pleasant smile, the kind that didn’t look like it was forced. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Sugawara Koushi. Or, Suga. Sorry about the belated introduction.”

Oikawa wasn’t sure if he should extend his hand out for a handshake, so he kept his right arm ready, hovering next to his thigh, but then the moment quickly passed. They were walking all this while, so it would have been unnatural for them to stop mid-stroll anyway. The street Sugawara led him down was illuminated by sparsely placed mercury vapor lamps, bathing the road in an icy blue glow. The litter that previously lined the road was gone, as if cleaned up by a swarm of road sweepers that passed over the town just moments earlier.

When they made a right two blocks down, Oikawa had to stop to take the scene in. Head bent back, he traced a line along the festive lights that were strung from lamp to lamp, small bulbs hanging above them like fireflies in the summer. The buzz that started in the pit of his belly rose quickly like bubbles in a fizzy drink; the thought of summer – of warmth, shorts and flip flops, and the hotpot feast on every eve of his birthday – was enough to tide him over the transition through spring. He brought his gaze down to what laid in the distance. Between rickety stalls and baskets of vegetables stacked precariously upon each other – middle-aged women with vegetables in their baskets, children holding  _ takoyaki _ sticks chasing each other; in the chaos there seemed to be a peculiar peace.

Sugawara led him to a fried chicken stall in the middle of the market, and Oikawa slid into one of the seats at the edge of the L-shaped counter. The stall owner had a laughter that roared like a rising wave, greeting Sugawara with a delightful cheer. He served up a plate of freshly grilled chicken wings, glistening over with barbecue sauce, for the two of them to share. Sugawara, sitting on the other edge of the L-shaped counter, picked up a chicken wing and started to eat.

By now, Oikawa’s brain was functioning and well. It was overloaded with questions that sped through his mind like sentences running across a teleprompter. First of all, where  _ was  _ he? In his distress he had forgot to even read the station name. Did his uncle realize he never made it to his station? Did he launch a missing persons search? Oikawa ran the tip of his fingers along the edge of a bare chicken bone as he pulled his thoughts together and mulled things over.

“So… How old are you?” Oikawa asked as he put down the bones of his second wing. The bare bones sat next to each other in the middle of his plate, and he realized, in his hungered daze, that he had definitely eaten more than just two pieces of chicken.

Sugawara looked at his sauce coated fingers like it was the first time someone’s asked him that question, and after briefly contemplating his answer: “I am twenty-two.”

_ Oh. He’s older than me, even. _

He watched Sugawara suck the meat clean off the bones, his slender fingers skillfully holding his wings at the best angles to eat. There wasn’t anything pleasant about the act, really. Oikawa felt his neck grow warm, reminiscent of the heat that radiated from his skin every time after he took a swig of liquor. 

It wasn’t like he had something better to look at, anyway.

“You got lost,” Sugawara explained easily, just after finishing his last chicken wing. “It happens all the time here  – strangers stumbling in in the middle of the night. Don’t worry though,” he paused then, his eyes meeting Oikawa’s. It stirred something in him, an indescribable shift that allowed him to trust this kind stranger. “We’re going to get you back home.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

They returned to the restaurant right after their meal. By then, the restaurant was filled with several customers, all of them sitting singly at their tables, like lone inhabitants of their own islands. Sugawara greeted them as they weaved through the tables to get to the kitchen. 

“I’ll be back in a bit. Why don’t you take a seat?” Sugawara offered before quickly disappearing behind the curtains to the kitchen.

Oikawa gingerly took the seat near the window, still a little disoriented. Had he even slept? He settled into the chair and folded his hands on the table in front of him, unsure of what he was waiting for. He wasn’t even sure how to explain his circumstances. The full moon, which hung in the cloudless sky, looked almost artificial, as if someone had taken a pair of scissors and cut a perfect circle in a black sheet. This left a gaping hole in the middle of the sky, devoid of the shadows and imperfections he was used to seeing. A  _ paper _ moon, that’s what it was.

The hushed voices in the back of the kitchen were hard to ignore, so Oikawa distracted himself by recounting the facts he knew: after getting stranded at a station he didn’t even know the name to, he wandered into a ghost town that somehow came to life at night. He was suspended in time with no solid grasp on the events unfolding before him; he wasn’t even sure if he should be feeling  _ happy _ that this was all too familiar with.

Sugawara and his parents emerged from the kitchen around ten minutes later, Sugawara standing between his two shorter parents such that his head was the apex of their triangular formation. His father had kind, fine wrinkles that stretched from his sockets to the ends of his face, and his mother had a shoulder length bob that neatly framed her face. There was something about them – he couldn’t put a finger on it – that made him a little wary. Was it possible to be  _ too  _ nice? Oikawa scrambled out of his seat to give a quick bow.

Oikawa had meant to ask about getting home, but it got lost along the tides of the conversation, among comments about chicken wings for breakfast and how it’d been a quiet start to the day.

Pulling of the apron that was hanging around his torso, Sugawara said, a coy smile ghosting on his lips, “I’ve got the day off today. I want to show you around a little before you leave.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Using logical reasoning (assuming any of  _ this _ was logical), Oikawa figured that this town ran time on the inverse, as if someone had thought it would be funny to flip the clock over. It was a little after midnight, and the moon continued to watch over them in the cloudless sky.

Sugawara led him up a narrow wooden trail with a small gas lantern. Even with the faint lighting, Oikawa managed to lose his footing a couple of times when he failed to avoid the occasional fallen tree branch. Sugawara caught him by his hand the final time, and his rising embarrassment and heightened awareness helped him avoid further mishaps.

They reached a small clearing on the side of the hill, which seemed to open up as the trees framing it slowly whittled down. Below them, he heard the large roar of the Pacific Ocean.

“So, Suga-san. Do you come up here often?” Oikawa asked. This was the first time he spoke since they started their ascent, so his body almost jumped, startled by how loud his voice was.

Sugawara’s lips eased into a small smile, looking away as he recalled a fond memory. “I used to come up here with a friend, actually, two of them. But that was a long time ago.” He brushed his hand over the grass next to him, as if he were combing its hair back. “These days I just come here alone.”

He patted the spot next to it for Oikawa to join him.

“Isn’t it hard though?” Oikawa asked as he sat down and crossed his legs. The grass was a little damp and he hoped it wouldn’t leave any marks on his pants. “Climbing up here in the dark. I would imagine doing anything in the dark to be challenging, to say the least.”

Sugawara pondered over the question for a moment, tipping his head back to look at the sky for answers, as if it were written in the stars. “There’s something different about this time of day. You might not know it yet, but you’ll notice it soon enough,” he replied. His voice held a promise, mystery and assurance woven into one.

He looked out at the body of water nearby, eyes following the waves as they rode towards the shore. With each surge forward, the waves fell back on themselves, their silver white hair blown back, never inching forward nor back. Oikawa had never found something so relatable. It carried a sentiment of stagnancy, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.

Sugawara nudged him out of concern.

“Yeah, I’m still here,” he chuckled, physically shaking the fog in his head away. “I just haven’t seen the sea in a long time. That’s all.”

Sugawara pushed himself up on his feet and dusted off the stray pieces of grass that stuck to his pants. “Now let’s go. There are other places I want to show you. It’s not so often our little town gets a visitor like you.”

Oikawa followed suit, and just before he turned to leave he caught sight of a lone lantern floating in the middle of the ocean, emanating a warm orange glow that ironically struck him with a sense of loneliness. “What’s that?” He asked, pointing to it. Upon closer scrutiny, he realized that he was pointing to a small row boat. The orange lantern sat as the sole companion of the old fisherman at the boat’s helm.

At that moment, the amity in his face vanished all at once, leaving his face an emotionless slate. Everything seemed to drain from him then, like the emptying of a tidal basin. 

Sugawara dismissed it with the wave of his hand, “Don’t mind him. That old guy’s crazy.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was dark when Oikawa stirred awake, his limbs heavy and his eyelids still stubbornly shut. The ceaseless whistle of the kettle in the kitchen pierced cleanly through the light air of daybreak. Grumbling, he pulled his blanket tighter around him.

It had been a long time since he’d succumbed to such a deep sleep, as if he had plunged head-first into the deepest and darkest recesses of the ocean. And that was exactly what it was: total and complete darkness. He remembered falling into bed, as well as the limbo he was currently drifting in. But everything in between was missing, spontaneously deleted,  _ stolen _ .

And then, as if someone had pulled the plug at the bottom of the bathtub, everything came rushing in.

Oikawa jerked awake, sitting up in his futon with unfound alertness. He was in an empty room and the futon next to him was unmade, blanket half-strewn across the room. It must have caught on Sugawara’s foot as he was leaving.

The moonlight streamed in through the windows and it stretched a long rectangle across the tatami mat, barely missing him by a few centimeters. He reached into his pocket for his phone – how he had slept with it uncomfortably in his pants, he didn’t know – but after many futile presses he accepted the fact that it was dead. It was late, and not knowing what time it was only served to further disorientate him. How could he have slept for so long! He had slept into the next day, waking up long after the sun had set. It was too late for any trains to be running and definitely too late to walk.

He crawled out of bed and stumbling outside, he found Sugawara just as he emerged from the bathroom with a towel on his head, a mirror of yesterday’s events.

“Hey, sorry,” Oikawa said, voice coming out a little hoarse, probably from having slept with his mouth open all night. “Could I borrow your landline?”

Sugawara jumped slightly, and then relaxed when he realized it was just Oikawa. “Sure,” he replied. He led him into the small office right next to the restaurant, where his parents kept all their records. The clunky-looking telephone sat on the edge of the desk, its red color faded from years of use. Great.

Sugawara sat on the edge of the desk, absently thumbing through the files in a nearby drawer as he waited for Oikawa to be done.

Oikawa pressed his lips into a thin line and stared at the keypad. If only he remembered what his uncle’s phone number was. He tried to think of the next best alternative. Apart from his own number, the only one he recalled was his mother’s.

“Sorry,  _ otousan _ ,” he muttered under his breath as he keyed the number in and pressed the receiver to his ear. The phone rang five times before the line got cut. Oikawa tried again, only to get the same result.

“Did your parents pick up?” Sugawara asked.

Oikawa tipped his head back and groaned at the ceiling. “Nope. Hey, when does the next train pass this station?”

Sugawara crossed his arms and stared holes into the floor. It would be more than a little ridiculous if Sugawara had never been to the train station, but he kept that comment to himself.

“I don’t really go to the train station. I’ve never needed to. We’re a pretty self-sufficient town and we have everything we need. Seems a little unnecessary to travel elsewhere.” Sugawara uncrossed his arms and pressed his palms on the desk behind him like he were mounting two pillars. He looked like he was telling the truth, no matter how absurd the truth sounded. Sugawara continued, “But, it should come at least every few days. I think that’s how trains are supposed to work.”

“I might go check it out in the morning,” Oikawa said.

From the corner of his vision he caught the polaroid picture Sugawara had dug up from one of the drawers. It sat next to his stretched fingers. 

Peeking over in curiosity, Oikawa asked, “What’s that?”

Sugawara took a slow, steadying breath, the action itself helping him regain his composure. “Oh, just a picture of me and some old friends. Nothing much.”

He tilted the picture so that Oikawa could see. In the picture, three boys stood in front of a convenience store, each holding an ice cream cone. In the middle, he could clearly see Sugawara with a vanilla cone in his right hand, pristine and bright like the sunlight reflecting off his skin. On his left, a taller boy with a larger, muscular build and long hair that framed his face. On his right, another boy holding a cone. He looked pretty ordinary – no fancy hairstyle or hair color or anything like that. 

Oikawa shifted his gaze from the photograph to Sugawara, then back to the picture, mentally cataloguing the differences.

“What’s with that scowl on your face?” Oikawa chuckled, trying to ease the tension.

Sugawara’s eyes widened at that remark, like a deer caught in the headlights.  _ Nothing _ , is all he offered, and then he quickly left the room. Oikawa was left wondering if he had said something wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oikawa found Sugawara in the kitchen when he walked out from the bathroom after a shower. He was now wearing a t-shirt and a pair of trousers that Sugawara had thrusted into his chest earlier, saying,  _ Take a shower, you stink _ .

Catching sight of Oikawa without the characteristic curls of his chocolate brown hair, the damp clumps of his bangs pressed flat on his forehead, Sugawara stifled a laugh with the back of his hand. His palm was coated in flour from the dumplings he was preparing, impossibly white with a little pink showing at the creases.

"Your hair," he teased, waving his index finger to gesture at Oikawa's entire face like he was the funniest thing he'd ever seen.

Grumbling in annoyance, Oikawa pressed his lips into a tight thin line and ruffled through his own hair with his hand. Hopefully that helped. With what little hair gel he had packed in his travel sack, he had to ration out portions as sparingly as possible.

He grabbed a stool and shifted it next to Sugawara, who was bent over the large metal bowl in front of him. It was half filled with dumplings, meticulously folded and its sides pressed uniformly. Oikawa knew better than to interfere since he couldn't cook, so he busied himself with something much more menial.

Plucking bean sprouts, he could manage.

They sat in silence for a while, the tension from earlier this morning still hanging over them like a wool blanket.

“So tell me about where you're from, Oikawa,” Sugawara said. He placed a newly folded dumpling into the metal bowl, then reached over to pick up another piece of dough – all while keeping his eyes on Oikawa. It had been a while since he’d had someone pay attention to him, and the old him three, four years ago might have reveled in it, soaked it all in. Now, it just felt so unfamiliar. He found it hard to even look Sugawara back in the eye. There’s a small part of Oikawa – the part of him that’s ruled by logic and explanation – that reasons that Sugawara’s just making sure he’s not destroying the poor beansprouts. Sugawara’s actions are fluid and graceful, all practiced movements that left nothing to error.

Oikawa rolled a beansprout between his fingers. He paused momentarily to think of what to say, “I grew up in Miyagi. It’s not much, but it works.”

Sugawara nodded, “And?”

“And.  _ Well _ . Should I start from the beginning?”

Shrugging, Sugawara continued, “Why not.”

Oikawa sucked in a breath. “Okay, I was born on July 20th 1995- Just kidding. Don’t want to bore you to death with the nitty gritty details, do I? School was boring; I did well on my tests. All through my years I played volleyball. Loved it. Absolutely loved it to the point where I didn’t know when to fucking quit. And then my knee goes, for real… But who cares, right? It’s just a sport.”

Oikawa said that, but the quiver of his lips gave him away.

Sensing that he was threading into sensitive matters, Sugawara directed the conversation away from Oikawa’s past. Instead, he asked him to tell him about the other cities in Japan. Each and every one of them. Oikawa indulged his curiosity by regaling him with stories about skyscrapers and amusement parks and even the Tokyo Skytree, even though he'd never actually been in it himself.

Sugawara chuckled softly as he continued making his dumplings, and looked over to Oikawa occasionally to make a comment.

"You've got a little something," Oikawa pointed out when he noticed a dash of flour across the other's cheek. "Here," he continued as he shifted over to wipe it off with his thumb.

Sugawara froze for a split second, then relaxed when Oikawa pressed his fingers against his face. Startled by the warmth of Sugawara's skin and the drumming of his heart against his ribcage, he quickly recoiled, as if he’d just burned himself.

In the spring of his first year in college, in a desperate attempt to prove his worth, he had overlooked the possibility of getting injured _again._ _This time_ , his family doctor spoke gravely, _this time it’s for good_. Oikawa never went back to gym to empty out his locker.

A part of him is grateful for it, almost. It’s the vertigo – it’s the desire to fall, to tread the fine edges until you finally succumb. It was bound to happen anyway. It was just a matter of when. For a while the eyes remained on him. The concern, the pity, it all showed through no matter how much his friends tried to hide it.  He imagined the end of his university career slightly  _ grander _ . It doesn't end with a  _ bang! _ but a whimper. 

From now on, he could forget about being second best in all aspects. He figured that it would be best for him.

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m heading out to make some deliveries,” Sugawara called from inside the kitchen, and he emerged holding two metal containers filled with the orders. “Wanna come with?”

Oikawa put down the rag and bucket in his hands and pulled off his apron. He’d been cleaning tables for the past hour or so – there wasn’t anything better to do at five in the morning anyway.

They dropped the first delivery off at the post office, the second one at a hardware store a street down. The last stop was quite a distance away, a good fifteen minute walk from their previous stop. The dark only furthered the distance between places, buildings and landmarks eclipsing into view only in the presence of street lighting. It was otherwise a world of unknowns.

“Suga-san!” Oikawa heard someone call out from somewhere in the darkness, voice light as if carried along by the passing breeze, sounding like it came from somewhere distant.

Only after walking a little further ahead did Oikawa locate the source. He looked similar to one of the boys in Sugawara’s picture, but he wasn’t one of them for sure. His jet black hair and plain-looking appearance was as far as the similarities went. There seemed to be some sort of distance between them, something that he imagined was not present between Sugawara and his friends in the picture.

“It’s been a while,” he teased, giving Sugawara a tight hug. 

Oikawa shifted around Sugawara so he could get a better view of the man.

“And who are you? I’ve never seen your face around before.” He asked, amused. His arms were crossed, and in one of them he was holding up a large black trash bag. There was no malice in his expression, just a hint of surprise. This must be a really shut-in town for it to have little to no visitors.

“Oh him?” Sugawara spun around to face Oikawa, as if he forgot he was standing there.

“Thanks,” Oikawa said flatly, side-eyeing him. He introduced himself, the practiced two sentence self-introduction he was used to regurgitating at every mixer,  _ Hi, my name is Oikawa. I’m from Sendai and graduated with a degree in Business and Marketing _ . 

Only when the words have left his mouth did he think that it wasn’t exactly relevant to the context he was in.

“Ennoshita Chikara,” the man replied, his lips curled up into a small smile that, if you considered it objectively, was difficult to read. It reminded Oikawa of the mothers that stood outside the preschool near his home, the ones that in the presence of other mothers tried to maintain the semblance of friendliness. However, from the way he talked to Sugawara, he didn’t seem the least bit hostile.

Ennoshita dumped the garbage bag he was holding into the bins lined up outside the convenience store, and with the wave of his hand, he invited them to go inside.

“Ah! Before dinner,” Ennoshita turned to both of them, clapping his hands together like he recalled something. “Suga-san, I need your help with something in the storeroom.”

“Do-”

But Ennoshita cut him off before he finished, “It’ll just be a while. I’m sorry, Oikawa-san! The storeroom barely fits two people and it’ll just be faster since Sugawara already knows where things are.”

He grabbed Sugawara by the wrist and pulled him into the storeroom, leaving Oikawa alone in the empty convenience store. The cream tiles on the ground were stained grey, and Oikawa rubbed the sole of his shoe on them to see if the color would change. When it seemed like they wouldn’t be coming back out in a while, Oikawa took a small stroll along the aisles, stopping at the ice cream cooler to examine the different flavors available.

When the both of them returned, Sugawara had a sour expression on his face. It was the first time he’d seen his expression that way – he’d never thought it was possible. For as far as he’s remembered, Sugawara’d never greeted him with anything less than a saccharine sweet smile. But the longer he dwelled on it, the more it seemed likely that he could have easily been keeping it up, even if he felt angry or annoyed inside. He kept it all in easily, or brushed it off, but this was the first time he truly let it show. The first crack in his facade. 

He emptied the bowl of ramen and box of chicken strips from the delivery containers wordlessly and checked the items off the list.

“We’re done here,” he grit out, slamming the metal lid of the container. He picked the box up, his grip unusually tight in a sorry attempt at self-restraint. Ennoshita waved goodbye from behind the counter, and Oikawa caught the barely hint of a grimace, just before he disappeared as he turned around the corner.

A chill ran up Oikawa’s back, light and barely there, like snowflakes that teetered precariously on the tip of a strand of hair. It was still cold that first week of April.

 

 

 

 

 

In the middle of a break, just after tipping back a whole cup of cold water, Sugawara offered, “I’ll take you to the station in the morning, so grab your bags.” He eyed Oikawa, who was sitting in the back of the kitchen, both his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers interlocked, as if in a prayer.

“What?” Oikawa opened his eyes and raised his head. Sugawara wasn’t looking at him then; he had already left the room.

When the sun rose, it consumed the darkness with its light. It bathed the streets with an unsettling sense of clarity, bringing to attention the hairline cracks along the walls and the faded paint. Hands thrust in his pockets, Sugawara stood on the platform, his feet edging a little over the long yellow line drawn before the gaping chasm.

He had been quiet and moody for a while, and Oikawa had been meaning to make sure he was fine. He reached out for Sugawara’s arm, but coincidence or not Sugawara turned at that moment to face him.

“Sorry,” he said curtly, his eyes wide and attentive, “For taking my bad mood out on you, especially since you’re leaving and all, I-“

“No worries,” Oikawa replied, giving him a firm pat on the arm. “None at all.”

When it seemed like there was going to be quite a wait, Sugawara disappeared briefly to the nearest vending machine, parked right at the entrance of the station.

Oikawa set his duffel down next to his feet when his shoulder started to feel sore, the minutes seemingly unending. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Sugawara approaching him with two bottles of cold tea. Sugawara settled down on the ground next to him, throwing him the other bottle as he folded his legs into a sitting position.

“It’s still not here, huh?” He remarked, shifting his head a little to gaze at the train tracks receding into the distance. The two lines, as they got further away from them, merged into one, and then disappeared abruptly around a bend. The trees, starting to bear leaves, extended its branches over the tracks to make a tunnel-like shape.

Oikawa popped the cap open and took a sip. The sun had almost reached the zenith of the sky and his face with flushed with heat. “You know, I had this fear that the train was going to come while you were gone getting those drinks, and I wouldn’t get to properly say goodbye. And thanks for, I don’t know, letting me sleep in your house and eat your food.” He chuckled at the end there, thinking he was funny.

Sugawara raised both his eyebrows. He was about to take a sip of tea when Oikawa had started talking, and he held it in position as he regarding him with amusement and disbelief.

He laughed, and said before taking a sip, “ _ Lucky you _ , you’re still here.”

“You don’t have to wait with me. I have a feeling the train’s not going to come,” Oikawa sighed. He rolled the bottle from hand to hand until both of them were wet. He wiped the water away on his pants.

“That’s what I told Ennoshita, but he still insisted on me bringing you here,” Sugawara continued.

“Told Ennoshita-san what?”

“That trains don’t come when you want them to,” Sugawara scoffed ruefully, his teeth wide and blindingly bright. “A little infuriating, isn’t it?”

And then, adding as an afterthought, “I usually like proving him wrong, but hopefully this time he’s right. For your sake.”

Oikawa bent his body over and spit out a bitter laugh. “Well, if this means getting stuck here for a little while longer, I wouldn’t say that I  _ mind _ . Getting lost for a while, away from everything back home – Now, that’s what I call an escape,” Oikawa considered the words that spilled out of his mouth. 

They sat on the platform for a little while longer, staring into the empty space between the tracks. Sugawara yawned once, and then again, and Oikawa decided as he pushed himself up, “It’s late, let’s just go.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oikawa woke to a heavy weight on his leg. Dreadfully, he shifted his body a little to see what it was, his mind breezing through a whole book's worth of worse-case scenarios. A ghost, a dead body, the horrific pasty-white skinned girl from The Ring.

Oh. It's just Sugawara's foot.

It had gotten a lot warmer through the course of the day, and to relieve himself of the heat Sugawara had kicked his blanket off, sprawling his limbs all over to maximize the surface area. He had apparently rolled over in his sleep too, and now one of his legs was draped over Oikawa's. Through his blanket Oikawa registered the dull weight, as subtle as the warmth that bled through his gloves whenever he held a cup of hot coffee. He noticed the same sensation in his chest, as if he were clutching a heavy box over him.

Sugawara was frowning in his sleep, face breaking out in a sweat. He seemed to be exerting a lot of force trying to keep his mouth shut, and Oikawa worried that if he grit his teeth too hard it might grind down to nothing.

Despite the opaque curtains that covered the windows, the sun's relentless rays still managed to break through the cracks, and Oikawa saw this world in its gray and washed-out color. It was hard to imagine how bright it was outside, and his eyes stung slightly when he stared too hard at the sliver of space between the curtains.

He reached over to smooth the hair on Sugawara's head. Sugawara heaved, and the room returned to the calm it once knew.

 

 

 

 

 

Oikawa had trouble going back to sleep, drifting in and out of consciousness in fits.

3.40 p.m.

4.15 p.m.

5.50 p.m.

Every time he looked at the clock hanging up in the center of the wall, the minute hand had managed a slow crawl, and he questioned if he managed to get any sleep at all. He slipped out of his futon, careful not to stir Sugawara awake, and padded to the bathroom quietly.

He drew his toothbrush out from the cup over the sink and brushed his teeth groggily, unsure if his blurred vision was due to sleep deprivation or the greasy bathroom mirror. He spit out his toothpaste and rinsed his mouth. Bringing his head up to look at his reflection in the mirror, he stared intensely like he was searching for something. Yet that  _ something _ eluded him, dancing on the tip of his tongue. The strange, dissociative feeling in his stomach began to attract his attention, making him feel like the entire world was weighing him down. Could it have been last night’s dinner?

He sat on the toilet bowl for the next ten minutes, just to be sure.

 

 

 

 

 

“Oikawa-san!” He heard Sugawara’s voice as soon as he stepped out of the bathroom. He blinked, and refocused his vision on Sugawara, who stood at the entrance of his bedroom. His hair stood up in all directions, and he really needed to adjust his pants, which settled awkwardly on his hips after tossing and turning in bed all night.

“You’re up!” Sugawara said, his voice hoarse and dry, his visage slowly lightening up as his vision of Oikawa got clear. “That’s good.”

Without much hesitation Oikawa’s lips eased into a smile, the knot in his stomach dissolving until he didn’t register it anymore. He nodded, hoping that was a good enough response. Sugawara’s comment didn’t leave him much more to say, anyway. He wrung the wet towel in his hands, but it was already wrung dry. He just needed something to do with his hands.

Sugawara yawned, stretching his mouth wide and scrunching his eyes close. Scratching the itch on his back, he said, “I wasn’t going to wake you, but since you’re already up, you should go to the field with me. If you want, of course. It’s a busy day.”

Once Oikawa was able to focus his attention on Sugawara properly, shaking away the lingering presence of exhaustion, he noticed the dried drool stain on Sugawara’s cheek. The laughter that spilled out of him made him feel lighter than he had felt in days.

 

 

 

 

 

The field was about a twenty minute walk away from Sugawara’s house. Past the suburban homes and municipal buildings, the town’s field approached the border of the town’s boundaries. The zelkova trees lining the walkways slowly whittled down until there were none left, leaving the blooming orange sunset in clear view. Overhead, the dense white clouds folded over each other like steps towards heaven. 

Sugawara, in the mornings, wasn’t much of a conversationalist. And surprisingly, Oikawa was okay with this. Content, even, with the comfortable silence rather than forced pleasantries. It almost felt like that was the first time he’d come to that conclusion. Gingerly, Sugawara lined heel to toe as he balanced his steps on the white stripes lining the asphalt, stumbling on and off in his morning stupor.

“Do me a favor and hold this up, will you?” Sugawara asked, handing him the rattan dish he was carrying. Once they had arrived at the field, waded across the waist high pampas grass and past a clearing, Sugawara led him over to the row of daikon radishes planted in the family lot.

Slowly, Sugawara pulled out several radishes from the ground and plopped it into the dish. Occasionally he grunted when the root wedged itself stubbornly in the soil.

“You know, I can’t put my tongue on it. It’s escaping me. Whatever it is that I’m trying to remember,” Oikawa swiped his tongue across his upper lip, index finger tapping on his head. In his distraction, he almost let the basket resting on his hip tip over. “I feel like I’ve been here before,” he continued, gleaming over the endless expanse of golden pampas grass that stretched miles on end until they merged into the copper mountains in the distance. 

Sugawara snorted. “Sure you have.”

In retaliation, Oikawa clucked his tongue with a piercing  _ tsk _ , the louder the better. 

“Oh well,” Oikawa remarked once the day’s share of radishes were harvested and they were ready to leave. He looked over his shoulder as they were getting ready to leave; the sun had already sunk, its last rays lingering on the edge of horizon. For a moment all the sound in the world drowned itself out, and faced with such a scene Oikawa felt like he were the first man on the moon. The light skirted the edge precariously  – falling, falling, and then quickly extinguished.

 

 

 

 

 

Gone were the dense, thick clouds; in the cloak of darkness the sky rolled out like a smooth black canvas. The paper moon hung right in the center, crisp and new. 

As they made the trek back towards town, the long road ahead of them seemed to stretch out, the small dotted lights of a town come back to life shimmering in the distance. They took turns carrying the basket  – before they had each tried to grab one end, but a lack of coordination resulted in the radishes sprawled all over the ground and Sugawara messing up his hair with his dirt coated palms.

“That’s nasty,” Oikawa groaned, his fingers carding through his bangs to remove any bits of grainy dirt. Not like that did anything though.

“Believe it or not, you’re making it worse,” Sugawara teased, and that seemed to be enough to shut Oikawa up for a good five minutes. “And you pouting just makes the satisfaction even  _ sweeter.” _

“Mmm, you know what sounds sweet?” Oikawa chirped, syllables hitting like a light staccato rhythm, the skipping in his feet punctuating the air between them. Half of him is glad that it’s Sugawara’s turn to carry the heavy basket. Maybe it’s the emptiness of both his hands  – a literal burden lifted off his shoulders  – but the other half of him felt like everything hard, everything he’d wanted to bury, disappeared with the sun in the sunset, lost to the wind like dandelions. 

“Breakfast,” Oikawa replied to Sugawara’s non-answer. “I can almost taste it.”

Once the zelkova trees started coming into view, the sparse countryscape slowly left behind them, Oikawa heard a familiar thump, a familiar chorus of hits. He stalled in his steps, and from the sudden halt the rattan basket  – which was now in his possession  – slammed against his stomach.

“Is that…” he started to trail off, eyes darting around until he located its source. Just down the alley there and maybe-

Sugawara’s lips tipped upward in amusement, his eyes bright because he, too, felt a similar rush of excitement thrumming in his veins. Oikawa could tell, one hundred percent sure like he’d known Sugawara since day one.

With the onset of spring and the return of warmer temperatures, volleyball season made its long-awaited appearance. Oikawa trailed behind Sugawara down the alley, the basket of radishes in his hand bouncing clumsily, until they came upon a group of young boys in a backyard. They had pulled a tattered net across the yard, held up by chains of thick yarn that tied it to the nearest trees. 

“Oh my god,” is the first thing that Oikawa let slip. Eyeing the small boy  – he couldn’t have been older than twelve  – mussed hair a chocolate brown and, Oikawa squinted,  _ are those dimples? _

“Suga-san!” He yelped, his voice increasing in volume like someone’s suddenly turned the dial up. “I’ve got a mini-me!” 

The children dwelled on him for a moment, hands falling to their sides in a daze. 

“Hey kids!” Sugawara greeted with a wave of his hand. One by one they started to run over until they swarmed around Sugawara, bunching up around his waist with tight hugs. Sheepishly, he looked over and shrugged at Oikawa.

“How about a practice match? You play, don’t you? Breakfast can wait.”

Setting down the radishes, Oikawa dusted his hands off. “Oh, I can _ play _ .”

 

 

 

 

 

From the moment Oikawa started playing, his footwork fell into a familiar pattern – one that he was used to following, one that he recognized as his own. It brought a long lost sense of joy to his being, rushing up his neck and blooming a rose red on his face. Across the net, Sugawara gleamed. Had Oikawa known Sugawara played setter, he would have challenged him earlier on.

Setting for children half his height took some getting use to; for one, he had to match their pacing and compensate for their mistakes, but they seemed to warm up to him after a while, taking his advice and criticisms with utmost awe and respect. 

When mini-him landed a successful spike on the other side of the court, he let out a loud yelp. Sugawara looked over at him then, his eyes bent in crescents as radiant as the moon itself. Oikawa clenched his fist, nails pressing its own little crescents into his flesh, and punched the air above him.

 

 

 

 

 

Later into the night, hours after the practice match with the neighborhood kids, both of them returned to Sugawara's restaurant.

Oikawa went through a list of chores according to his daily routine: washing fresh vegetables, leaving them out to dry, and lastly preparing the miso soup. Sugawara was kept busy in the restaurant as he attended to patrons, a pleasant smile on his face that showed no hint of fatigue. Only until around an hour after midnight did the crowd dwindle down, patrons leaving one by one until the room settled into a chilling quiet. The spring breeze blew in once in a while, whistling through the cracks and crevices in the wooden boards and winding around the tables, and the chill, like the touch of a lover's hand, crept up his skin.

Cleaning up was never Oikawa's favorite part.

"Just before the dinner crowd comes along, how about a trip down to the beach?" Sugawara asked as he stacked bowls into each other. The stack of five bowls made it a little hard to maneuver to the kitchen, especially with the three teacups in his other hand.

Oikawa watched them balance precariously on his palm, and only after Sugawara's set the bowls down and after he's released the breath he'd been holding, does he remember to answer Sugawara's question.

"Ah, your parent's won't mind?" He let out a breathy response. At that moment, he registered the coolness of the smooth porcelain against his fingertips.

Sugawara sauntered back and towards the next table.

"The weather this morning's supposed to be the best this week! That's what I heard from Morisuke-san next door. I was waiting for the perfect day to go see the sunrise," he continued.

Oikawa couldn't remember the last time he'd gone out of his way to watch the sunrise. Not that it took a lot of effort anyway, since he's always been awake. He'd been kept busy by his chores and other errands in the restaurant that the sunrise seemed natural. Whether he stepped outside or not, the sky was bound to brighten. Through the windows the dark matte walls changed in shades of gray until color sprang to life.

"You know what? Screw washing dishes. The sunrise sounds perfect," he beamed back at him.

 

 

 

 

 

They set out from the restaurant around five in the morning. They descended down a familiar path in the darkness, the cobblestone ahead of them only coming into view as they proceeded forward with a lantern in hand. Overhead, the sky lightened to a blue-black violet, like a blooming bruise.

Occasionally a few children would dash past, weaving through them and under Sugawara's lantern easily. Oikawa would jump up and freeze, to Sugawara's amusement.

Oikawa knew the route like it had been imprinted at the back of his mind from the numerous deliveries he had made with Sugawara. Pretty soon he'd be able to make them on his own. It was a relief – he didn't want to trouble Sugawara too much after all. This new job, learning curve and all, had it's benefits. The free dumpling soup, for one.

At the fork of the path Sugawara pointed to take a left. Now this path he'd never traversed before. They had reached the edge of the hill, where it seemed like it couldn’t get any further than that. From the way the sky opened up ahead, he could tell that the ocean had to be near. Only until he had realized that Sugawara was pointing his finger did he notice a small set of stairs. He followed him down the steps, the bent branches overhead forming a tunnel that shielded them from the elements. Through the cracks the moon appeared and disappeared in a cheeky game of hide-and-seek.

After what seemed like forever, the umbrage overhead cleared all at once like a breath of fresh air. The circle of orange light from Sugawara's lantern dissipated into the space around them. In the distance, he could hear children shrieking as they splashed in the water. The paper moon, crisp clear in the streaks of violet hues, formed a winnowing reflection on the ocean surface. The children never ventured too far from the shoreline though – they only went as far as their lanterns allowed them to see.

Everything seemed to pass quickly then, and before he knew it the purple sky had faded into a pale pink. The sun peeked over the horizon, slowly inching its way up the sky. Oikawa's breath caught in his throat as he witnessed it climb. For some reason this seemed so foreign, even though he definitely knew what the sunrise was. When the sun revealed half of itself, Oikawa was straining to see. Maybe it was time, then, to look away.

"Told you this was worth it!" Sugawara exclaimed out in front of him, kicking off his flip flops and running towards the ocean. The lantern by his slippers tipped over in his urgency.

"Look!" He shouted, whipping his head back as he regarded Oikawa with nothing but awe in his eyes.

The moment their eyes meet, Oikawa loses all the words he's ever known.

The image looked like it was straight out of a pictorial in a magazine, Sugawara’s upper half swiveled around to look at him, his body almost bent back as he broke out into an uninhibited laugh. Behind him, the sun teetered on the edge of the horizon, its presence a promise of what's to come. At the same time, the brightening of the day did little to discourage the paper moon, which remained at the corner of the sky. A watchful eye over the rebirth of a new day.

For some reason Oikawa could not explain, he felt his eyes misting over, as if someone had pulled a thin white sheet over. It could have been the morning chill seeping into his bones, or the sudden brush of waves over his feet. He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand.

He finally caught up to himself, the sureness and gripping reality of being  _ here  _ resounding loudly like the waves collapsing on the rocks some distance away.

Moments later, the sun fully emerged, its blindingly perfect circle hanging low in the sky. It was truly a wonderful sight.

 

 

 

 

 

"Oh,  _ shit _ ," Sugawara winced when he caught a glance at his wristwatch.

Oikawa's face pulled into a horrified grimace

"It's your fault," he said, all flustered as they shoved their feet into their slippers and stumbled through the sand. The bits of sand under his soles were a mild annoyance. As they dashed towards the steps, Sugawara's sudden halt caused Oikawa's face to slam into the back of his head. Oikawa felt really graceful with his mouth full of Sugawara's hair.

A foreboding figure peaked out of the stairwell then, and the both of them watched haltingly as he staggered past. It left a sour taste on Oikawa's tongue, remaining all the way until he made it back to the restaurant.

 

 

 

 

 

The next day, Oikawa rose when the day had already dimmed. The sun retreated behind the cover of the low-rising buildings, casting an orange halo around the area. It left a hazy afterimage, softly glowing, imprinted in his mind, even as the sky turned a deep shade of blue.

Sugawara's father set him out on deliveries on his own this time, handing the basket of containers to him without any hesitation. His mother handed him a list of addresses from the counter, the first piece atop a pile of other receipts and paperwork. He backtracked a couple of steps to peek around the door to the kitchen, where Sugawara was washing the green onions, and made a small wave.

He went down the list dutifully, checking address after address off until he was completely done. His customers had greeted him warmly; one of them even offered him some tea. "Now the Sugawaras have done it, haven't they? Got themselves a handsome, young delivery man like you," an  _ obasan _ had said as she pinched his cheeks, to his embarrassment.

With the basket emptied, he swung his hands by his side lightly. He even rolled his shoulders back a few times just to hear the satisfying crack. He was about to make the trek back up the hill when he passed by a familiar opening. The tree branches, slowly sprouting new leaves as the days flew by, called to him. For a moment he felt drawn to the void, a sentiment he found himself revisiting often, but not often enough to remember what it actually was.

He gave a parting glance at the buildings lined up towards the peak of the hill, fringed with occasional points of light coming from the windows. He whirled around and descended down the steps decisively, galloping down with the basket knocking against his thigh with a steady momentum. It built up – the barrelling down the stairs – running too fast for the light in his hands to follow. When he reached the beach, the light around his body from his lantern dispersed in a similar pattern as before, lost to the wind.

For a while he didn't really know what to do. To think, with the enthusiasm he had dashing down the steps he would have thought this through. He approached the shoreline, going as far as he could before the waves could touch his toes. The weather today was nowhere as good as it was the day before. A muggy sort of denseness clung to his skin, weighing down heavy. 

"It's you," a gruff voice came from behind him, startling him and making his shoulders jump.

Oikawa spun around, thrown.

It was the old man from before, holding a lantern of his own. It cast a harsh light on his chin but failed to make it all the way up his face, making him look like a ghost. This was the first time he'd seen him up close. The old man had a maroon scarf draped around his neck, and he had on a clean white t-shirt and fitting navy shorts. Only his slippers, kind of battered down from use, seemed out of place.

For a while Oikawa didn't know what to say. His mouth was pressed into a grim line, his breath held.

"I..." he mumbled, when it seemed like the old man wasn't going to start. The old man, whose eyes were overwhelmed by the thickness of his eyebrows, appraised him thoroughly. "Sorry but, I don't think I know you." He punctuated his sentence firmly, hoping that it was enough to end the conversation. Coming to the beach was a mistake.

"You don't belong here," the old man finally retorted, almost heaving, his words the result of the gathering moments of preparation. "You need to return to where you came from immediately."

Repulsed by whatever it was – his words, his expression, most likely _both_ – Oikawa's face scrunched up in offense. He was going to choke out a throwaway scoff, but he stopped himself. As rude as the old man might have been, he wasn't going to stoop as low as him. He pulled himself together, and held out his index finger between the two of their bodies.

_ Hold on. _

"With all due respect, sir, I  _ am  _ from here. I have no idea what you're talking about and frankly, this isn't worth my time." That came out much more composed than he thought possible. Which was great. Good. He bent over to pick up the basket that had fallen into the sand and started to dust it off.

He ducked around him swiftly, eyeing the entrance to the stairwell.

"Oh yeah?" He heard the old man shout from behind him. "If you're so sure, tell me: Who are you? What's your story?"

His voice sounded like it came from far away, like something speaking through a closed door. But Oikawa knew where it came from. If it's a challenge he wants, it's a challenge he'll get.

" _ Fine _ , if it will make a crummy old man like you happy," he gritted out, turning around to face him. Between them and their two lanterns, it seemed like they were two ships, stranded, in the darkness.

"I am Oikawa Tooru. I was born right here, twenty-one years ago. My favorite sport is volleyball, and I have played every day of my life-" He had to pause then, his hand reaching up to hold his temple as his eyes scrunched closed. It was as if he had been struck by a blunt object – no spikes, no edges, just a dull, constant throbbing of an intensity he had not experienced in a while. The sensation of heartburn starting spreading up his throat, a fist in his mouth, and he had to spit his last words to force them out of him. 

"There it is, son," the old man continued. He must have had a smug look on his face. At least, that was what Oikawa imagined; he was too preoccupied boring holes into the sand at his feet.

"That's your body fighting the truth."

Oikawa lifted his head up then, eyes narrowed. The old man was reaching out towards him, and by reflex he jerked away. He wanted nothing to do with it all.

There was something that Oikawa wanted to prove though, with every fibre in his body, so he pushed through his gritted teeth, fully intending to see this through.

"And the high school I played at was... Aoba Jousai," there he felt the sand beneath him part, the entirety of it collapsing. Everything fell on him at once, as if he had made it to the bottom of that pit and the world above him was closing in, burying him alive.

And he was sputtering, a vile taste rising up the back of his throat and spreading like a deep summer's bushfire.

 

 

 

 

 

The border where one reality lapsed and the other picked up was all of a sudden demarcated into clear boundaries. Being thrown back like that – a revelation that he’d been living a different life without even knowing – felt like washing up upon the shore. At long last he returned to the embankment, and even though it’d only been  _ what _ , one, two days since the casual slip into  _ this _ , and now he returned ragged, bogged down by the weight of his brine-soaked clothes. He debated, for a moment, if returning was even a good idea at all.

“You don’t belong here,” the old man repeated gravely. He reached out his arm to pull Oikawa up from his crouching position and steadied both arms firm on his shoulders. Looking into his eyes with a mix of both sorrow and regret, he warned, “You have to go back.”

“Look,” Oikawa snapped, voice cracking, “I don’t know who you think you are, or _hell,_ what makes you think that you have the right to break this to me.”

“But,  _ boy,  _ don’t you see?” The old man waved his hands in front of him, “We’re one in the same- We are not from here. We wandered in – young, listless, and at the lowest pit in our lives – because that’s what this place does; she draws people in, people of certain type that she knows will stay, and she erases everything clean. And even when these people do find out about the life they’ve left behind, they stay, willingly giving themselves up to the peace they think they can find here. 

What I’m telling you is: stay, if you really want, but consider it carefully. You’ve got a whole future ahead of you, boy. Staying here will never let that happen.”

Oikawa’s eyebrows knotted in response to the information suddenly thrust upon him. He felt emptied, exhausted, like a hollow watermelon dug clean on a clammy summer’s day. 

“Then what about you! Why are you still here, if you desire to leave that much?”

The old man sucked in a deep breath. His hollowed cheeks seemed to swell in the lantern’s shadows.

“I have a family here now. I cannot leave. One day I might, but then again it’s been so long, our world might have already written me off. What will I have left to return to?”

He turned to Oikawa, inquiring, “What do  _ you  _ have to return to?”

Oikawa bit hard on his bottom lip. He rolled out his whole future in front of him – not exactly as bright as he’d imagined it to be a few years ago. Maybe he’ll get a job. But where? And maybe he’ll find someone to settle down with. But who? His bottom lip was growing red from the pressure. Decisively, he took a deep breath of air.

Briefly, he entertained the idea of staying: the fragrance of freshly steamed rice washing through the walls, the unwavering presence of the paper moon, the bubbling laughter of children and the innocent, untainted sound of a well worn volleyball striking the dirt. 

Before he knew it he was crying, hot tears streaming down both cheeks.

The old man's jaw slackened, his arms falling to his sides as he watched Oikawa crumble. The night sunk into a different sort of quiet, the kind of quiet that no one liked, like the kinds that existed in funerals, or the quiet left behind in the wake of earthquakes. Softly, the waves lapped against the shore, a small apology.

 

 

 

 

 

"I need to talk to you, Suga," Oikawa said, voice even. He had run up the hill in a daze, steadied himself just barely enough to look like he hadn't been crying. "Outside. Now."

Sugawara tilted his head over at the sound of Oikawa's voice. His arms were full of empty bowls as he cleared up one of the tables.

"Oh! You're back. Maybe in a bit, okay? Still got a bunch of tables to clear."

"Sugawara," Oikawa cut in sharply. His clenched fist was growing hot in his pocket. "This is important."

Sugawara only stared back, doing a damn good job at concealing his surprise if not for the flicker of passing silver in his eyes, like the flash of white as a car rounded the bend of a junction. He set the bowls in his arms down wordlessly, with no added theatrics or commotion. No one even noticed them weaving out of the restaurant.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Oikawa pressed, spinning around to face Sugawara as soon as he'd stepped foot out of the restaurant. He willed his voice not to break, to not convey, as much as he'd like to show it, the  _ betrayal. _

"Tell you what," Sugawara answered, pushing Oikawa back with the same resistance.

Oikawa folded his arms. He seethed, "That I'm  _ stuck _ . That  _ you  _ knew what I was getting myself into and you didn't say a thing. Not a single fucking thing."

Sugawara blinked slowly, realization washing over his face. His lips parted, and Oikawa was waiting for him to say something. An apology, maybe. An explanation. Sugawara just continued to stare at him like that, because he knew he'd been caught. He was waiting for himself to come up with an explanation.

"...How'd you find out?" He asked, weakly.

Oikawa pushed a finger against Sugawara's chest in accusation, pushed him all the way until his back met the concrete wall and he felt the strength of his own anger reverberate back through his finger and up his spine. "Why didn't you tell me? And you, of all people. I trusted you!"

At the sound of Oikawa's voice cracking, the pain evident, palpable, and real, Sugawara averted his gaze. What he was gazing at was beyond Oikawa. Up the hill there was nothing but dusty cobblestone, rusted metal, and at the end of the path, the abandoned train station.

"I guess I thought that, maybe," Sugawara continued again. By then Oikawa's pointed finger had slackened to a full palm against Sugawara's chest unintentionally. Sugawara heaved, defeated, and Oikawa felt him deflate, the expectations he held and everything unsaid, all of it coming undone in a single breath. "Maybe, you wanted to stay."

He looked over, head tilted just slightly. He looked like he was searching then, blindly groping in the dark for anything, something, like a lone lighthouse perched on the bay. Oikawa's confusion only served to make him confused.

"I thought you would be happy here. With me, maybe," he muttered. The wild beating of his heart was wildly apparent to Oikawa, who could only watch as it all unfolding in deafening silence. "I guess I was wrong."

Oikawa furiously blinked back his tears threatening to spill, pooling on the edges of his eyes. His head eclipsed the light from behind him, covering Sugawara's face in darkness that sunk his cheeks in. He held his eyes closed tight, mouth wobbling in a miserable line, like he was expecting to be hit. It was then that he noticed he wasn't angry anymore, that the anger had vanished long ago at the back of his mind. It had gone somewhere far off, leaving something far worse in its wake.

He pushed himself away, springing back into the light, and dashed off down the hill and far away.

_ Of course it has to be him _ , Oikawa thought, even says under his breath.  _ Of course it had to be him. _

 

 

 

 

 

The old man had said to write it all down. Anything that could trigger the return of his memories once sleep had washed it away. It was what he was always reciting like a stubborn prayer. One day he was going to get the hell out of there. If not today, then tomorrow, or the day after that.

Oikawa fished in the pocket of his shorts for a receipt that was shoved in there. He pulled it out and unfolded it, unveiling the list of addresses he had crossed out earlier. Sharp fold lines ran across the palm sized sheet of paper; in the moonlight the lines seemed to deviate, running amok from the center. He flipped it over and pulled out a pen from his other pocket.

"You are Oikawa Tooru," he read as he wrote. "You are from Miyagi, and you were on the way to your uncle's house when you wound up here."

He pauses a little, the tip of the gel pen pressed on the paper, as he thought about what future-him would like to read.

"It's not too late to go home."

Once he had finished, he held the crappy piece of paper up in front of him. He was hoping that it would help him feel better but it didn't. Which was just great, honestly.

He swung his legs back and forth. Every time they came back to him they hit the stone ledge he was sitting on, and the consistent drumming gave him some sort of relief. He was sitting along a short wall that rounded the bend at the base of the hill. If he turned the other way, he could see the ocean.

"Oh! Oikawa-san," a voice came from the darkness, followed by the swift acceleration of light steps as he jogged down the hill.

"Ah! Ennoshita," Oikawa gasped when he realized it was him. Flustered, he stuffed the receipt into his pocket and broke into a wide grin. He had a hand remain over the pocket opening, a small coincidence; he just didn't want to let anything that he'd want to hide, out. "How are you faring on this fine day?"

Ennoshita came to stop, the white and blue icebox making loud clunking noises as it swayed in his arms. The look in his eyes changed then, and he came closer to get a better look at Oikawa's face, bending down slightly to look at the swollen eyes beneath his bangs. "...Nothing much, just delivering some ice cream. What about you?"

Oikawa swung his legs one more time. When they returned they produced a dull thud. "Nothing much."

Looking somewhat helpless, eyes darting from Oikawa's face, to the ice box in his hands, debating if he should set the box down or not, Ennoshita finally broke the silence, "You found out. Didn't you?"

Oikawa bent his head back and groaned. 

"You knew about it too? You and Suga, you both,  _ ugh." _

Ennoshita set the box down.

"I knew the very moment you introduced yourself. I knew you had to go home. I made sure Suga-san knew that too. I guess..."

"You guess?"

Ennoshita ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I know how bad this all seems right now, but you can't blame Suga-san, all right?" One of his hands pinched his nose bridge, and his closed eyes looked like he was gathering his thoughts.

"Something like this happened a few years ago. Someone, just like you, wandered into our little town, ended up taking a nap outside the post office. Daichi-san, one of Suga-san's friends back then  – he used to live there with his parents. Suga-san, Daichi-san, Asashi-san  – the three of them grew up together. They were the best of friends. Sometimes I came over to play but I was always a little awkward around them, being a whole year younger than them and all.

Anyway, that was when they found out that there was a  _ whole other world  _ outside here. That fact's not so well known around here, and it'd be best if you didn't spread that around either. You wouldn't want to cause any panic.

So, at the end of it all, Daichi-san and Asahi-san took flight with that stranger. They insisted that Suga-san go along with them too, but he didn't."

Oikawa stared back at Ennoshita wordlessly.

"I suppose, when you showed up, it brought all of this back. I'm sorry." Ennoshita finished, looking guilty, even though it wasn't even his fault.

Fingering the hem of his shirt, Oikawa let out a rueful laugh, thinking,  _ what do you know about being selfish? _ Slyly, it revealed itself from where it was hiding deep inside him, batting its eyelashes guiltlessly, greeting him like an old friend.

"He wanted me to stay," he eventually came to that conclusion.

Ennoshita paused. "So are you going to?"

Oikawa pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, his lips pursed, and wished he didn't have to make a decision.

 

 

 

 

 

He avoided Sugawara for the rest of the night, wandering up and down streets he’d long grown accustomed to. He’d learned where the cracks in the asphalt were, and sidestepped them every time he passed.

When it was approaching dawn, he ventured down to the shore. There wasn’t anywhere else for him to go, anyway. And if there was a place he wanted to be at the time, it was the beach. 

It was just a little after sunrise, and the sun was teetering on the edge of the horizon. When Oikawa stared out into the distance, the fine line that separated the blue of the ocean and the blue of the sky seemed to blur. He stepped over to the sand and felt his weight shift as he walked towards the water.

The ebb and flow of the tides crashed against his ankles rhythmically; it wasn't strong enough to throw him off balance, but the warmth did catch him by surprise. He walked further out into the sea, stepping gingerly to make sure he didn't step on any tiny seashells.

He watched his feet distort under the shallow layer of water, bending in the light. For the first time that day he heard his heart settle, slowly and gradually like sediment collecting at the base of a river, and he reached for the piece of paper in his pocket, rumpled from the countless times he had reached in to give it a squeeze. 

Stepping out of the water and back into his slippers, he approached the stairs by the base of the hill. The branches surrounding the entrance were starting to grow its leaves back as they marched further into spring; in a few weeks they might even bloom. The piece of paper in his hands held everything he needed to return home, the ominous weight of it a burden in his hands. Decisively, he shoved it under the shrubbery, nestled it between molted insect shells and stray pebbles. Once it was the peak of spring, the receipt would be lost in the undergrowth. 

If however, the piece of paper managed to survive until the winter to see the light of day, Oikawa would reconsider.

He started climbing the steps, only turning back to look at the blur of blue and white behind him. Maybe, the fog was where he wanted to be.

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey,” Oikawa greeted, stepping into the space between Sugawara and the counter, slotted in perfectly as a prelude to a smooth segue into things, except he fucked it up as soon as he met Sugawara’s eyes drooping into an apologetic wince. 

He choked on the inhale, hands frozen on the front of his apron, and he fumbled for something to say. 

“ _ Hey _ ,” Oikawa repeated softly, haltingly, his hand finding Sugawara’s easily. And this, the uneasiness they were threading right here, this was something they had in common. He held onto his sorrows like currency, and Sugawara, eventually unfurling his clenched fist, released in a choked breath:  _ I’m sorry _ .

 

 

 

 

 

Later, after the sun had reached the zenith of the sky and the curtains had been drawn tightly shut, Oikawa declared just as Sugawara was about to slip into sleep, “I’m staying.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Wake up,” Sugawara said, prodding Oikawa’s thigh with his foot.

Groaning groggily, Oikawa turned his head over. “You’re not up either.”

They continued lying down like that for while, watching the varying amount of light filtering into the room change the color of the shadows; in a few seconds, the cool gray was swiftly replaced with a burning yellow. He turned his head every once in a while to make sure Sugawara was there, thinking that a quiet like that could swallow him soundlessly, but he was still there every time he checked, hands folded and staring up at the ceiling, looking as if the best thing had happened to him.

He looked up at the exact spot where Sugawara was looking, only to find a particular point on the yellowed ceiling where the light intersected and danced every time the clouds came, went and eclipsed the sun.

Eventually, the annoyed shout of Sugawara’s mother was what prompted them to stumble out of their futons. Oikawa pushed Sugawara out of the way to reach the bathroom first, but Sugawara came barging in anyway, playfully pushing him aside to have a good look of his face in the mirror. It was a little hard to brush their teeth like that, each having a hand on the sink and barely enough shoulder space to move their toothbrushes back and forth. Somehow, they made it work. 

In the early evenings, the night market would be stocked with fresh fruit of the day. They descended down the paths, slippers slapping against the cobblestone, with unfound vigor. Between the alleys and narrow stairwells that led downhill, their shadows converged as they rounded the bends. Oikawa had no idea why they were running, in slippers no less. Occasionally he’d skip a step or two but still landed on his two feet. 

Now, the sky was painted with streaks and streaks garnet and gold, the clouds wispy and almost not there. The sun hid behind the rows of houses on the edge of the hills. Up high, the paper moon made its appearance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Occasionally he’d hear a high pitched whistle of a train barrelling into his heart and he would look up from whatever it was he was doing. He’d pause for a moment, sometimes even close his eyes, head tilted as he tried to locate the source, circling around him all blurred and indistinct. Maybe if he truly listened hard enough it would come to him like an awakening, but for now...

 

 

 

 

 

 

Somewhere far off, at an all too familiar station, the evening train sped by, never faltering, never stopping.

 

**Author's Note:**

> “The crow came back again just a little while ago,” Fuka-Eri said, “A big crow.”  
> “In the evening that crow always comes up to the window.”  
> “Doing the same thing every day.”  
> “That’s right,” Tengo said. “Just like us.”  
> “But it doesn’t think about time. Probably only humans have the concept of time.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Six Hours From Six Feet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13226994) by Anonymous 




End file.
